


Ash and Rain

by withcoffeespoons



Series: Catrin Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of The Last Straw, Catrin Hawke and her companions flee Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash and Rain

Dark clouds rolled in to obscure the eerie glow left in the sky by the explosion. Though it was hidden, it lingered, oppressive in the air, an unanswered accusation.

It smelled like ash and rain.

Catrin hadn’t stopped since she left the Gallows, one foot in the front of the other as though she might otherwise crumple to the ground and never move again.

She heard the footsteps of her companions behind her, dug hard into the sands of the Wounded Coast. The soft whisper of Merrill’s bare feet, Isabela’s near-silent hesitation. The doubletime quick steps of Varric’s shorter legs, and the heavy fall of Carver’s Templar armor. And Aveline staggering at the rear, her step an uneven limp,

And Anders, oh, moving in heavy, slow steps, as though the City of Chains had taken hold of him at last. She hadn’t said a word to him since the final battle against the Knight-Commander. She hadn’t said a word to anyone.

"Hawke!" Varric called, panting. He always was better at hiding and fighting than he was at running away. "Where are we going?"

Catrin only slowed her pace, did not answer.

"We can’t just wander aimlessly." Carver’s words stopped her fast. She spun to face the defiant apology on his face.

Oh, how she missed Bethany. Going on eight years gone, and she still remembered her voice, her last words a plea for strength. Looking back, Catrin wished she had asked for long life, instead.

The spell was broken. The confidence that had made up the brittle shell holding her together had splintered in the face of her sister’s memory. “I—I don’t—”

"Is safety not enough?" Aveline ventured.

"Yes," Catrin agreed, relieved.

"There are Templars in pursuit," Aveline said. "Not many. Only a small patrol."

"They’ve gone rogue," Carver remarked. "The Knight-Captain isn’t that stupid. He wouldn’t order them after you."

"No," Isabela agreed. "This is the nature of vengeance."

"Rivaini."

"What do we do?" Catrin asked, looking to Aveline. She needed her compass. Without her, she was left spinning.

The Guard-Captain shook her head. Catrin had gone further than Aveline would have ever considered; she was good at pushing her limits. “I’m with you, Hawke.”

Catrin’s jaw clenched. She hefted her staff from her back. “Then we turn and fight.”

"Sister, no," Carver pleaded, his hand wrapping around Catrin’s arm.

She gaped at him. “You defend them?”

"You defend _him_?” he shot back, gesturing at the dark, silent hunch of Anders’ shoulders.

Catrin tore out of her brother’s grasp.

"Hawke," Varric ventured cautiously.

"Do you know only how to recite our names now?" Catrin snapped.

"Love—"

She caught the hand that had reached out to her, twisting until she had Anders’ body pressed hard against solid rock. “No! You don’t—” She bit back the daggers her words threatened to become.

_You don’t get to call me that now._

It had been the first word the man had uttered since Kirkwall. In the shadow of what he had done, Catrin couldn’t help but find it rang false.

She pulled away from Anders’ resigned form, folded over, numb under Catrin’s anger. “I defend only my right to live freely. Those Templars would no sooner see all of us dead—yourself included, brother.

"We will, all of us, be branded traitors in the eyes of the zealous." She shot a glance at Anders, quick as lightning. "This is our inheritance. Our justice.”

Misery settled over Anders like the clouds overhead.

"So yes, Carver. I will fight. No more will I roll over for those who would see me caged.

"I ask only one thing of you," she added, her voice suddenly tight and tiny.

"What?" Carver asked mulishly.

"If you will not stand with me—any of you—I ask that you leave now. I will not—" She gripped her staff, leaning on it as though it were the only thing keeping her on her feet.

It had been her magic that had struck Fenris down, that had dealt the final blow. She wondered if that made her no better than the Tevinter magisters she had endeavored to convince him she detested as he did.

"Come on," Isabela said quietly. Catrin’s eyes snapped open. Isabela had taken Carver’s arm. "I’m sick to my stomach of death."

Her betrayal, at least, came gently.

"Anyone else?" Catrin asked wearily, as she held herself from watching Carver and Isabela disappear down the path.

"I’ll fight at your side," Merrill said. Her silence had been unusual, unnerving. "It’s the least I could do to repay your kindness."

Catrin cringed. “Merrill, I’ve hardly been kind to you.”

"Perhaps not," she admitted sheepishly, "but you have always acted in my best interest, even when I couldn’t see it."

Varric stepped forward, and for a moment, Catrin feared that he, too, would leave her side.

"Still sick of Templars and mages, Varric?"

The dwarf shook his head, a humorless chuckle trickling out. “I could manage another favor. For the right mage,” he added with a sidelong look to Anders.

Anders, who seemed to have run out of fight.

He flinched at her approach. Good, she thought, abating the tightness in her chest that insisted the dead stare in his eyes resembled too closely that of the Tranquil. If he felt something, even pain, that was proof enough that he was still her Anders.

"I need you," she told him, her voice hardened and flat. "I need you by my side or this isn’t—"

_Or this isn’t worth any of it._

"As long as you’ll have me," he said, sorrowful.

There was so much more to say, but the Templars would not wait. “Get ready,” Aveline called, raising her shield.

Three Templars crested the hill, the advance, more to follow and Catrin would be ready. An exhausted rage roiled inside her, and if she had her way, she would funnel it into every sword that dared raise against her. She would shake the ground beneath them if it meant a day of peace.

Anders threw a blast of lightning from her side. The ground rose up under Merrill’s command and rent a screaming Templar’s limbs from his body. Aveline left blood in her wake like an autograph. They fell into a familiar rhythm, the beat set by Bianca’s thrumming pulse.

Catrin held her staff limply in her hand like a foreign object.

_Turn and fight._ It had been her plan. Why couldn’t she move?

The second wave of fighters advanced. Overwhelmed, Aveline backed herself into a corner, a crevice formed by the jagged cliffs on the coast. Merrill and Varric took cover, and Anders lunged forward. Perhaps not so drained of spirit as Catrin had feared. Ice spiked from his fingertips, lashing out from where he stood.

And still she couldn’t move.

Varric was calling her name, but it was as though the cry came from another world, distant and meaningless.

And then pain.

Her stomach bled where the Templar’s sword had landed a blow, her robes and armor flooding.

Anders let out a savage yell—all his own, the shine of Justice held solid beneath his skin.

Catrin’s staff was heavy, but she wielded it as though it had the weight of a pen in her hand. Fire curled around her, burning flesh and roasting metal armor. She reached out her fist and dragged the Templars flanking Aveline to the ground with such great force their faces ran with blood.

She felt nothing, no pain, no fear. Years of rage and injustice at the hands of a city that had taken everything from her, and she was as ruthless and efficient as a stone.

She didn’t notice until her arcane shield fell that she had run her mana dry.

Aveline drove the point of her sword into the last of the Templars, his breath a mere hiss.

"Maker’s breath, Hawke."

"Catrin," Aveline said, a rare utterance of her given name, disquieted, awed. Her sword never left her hand, hovering between them.

Catrin fell to her knees.

"No!" Anders cried, his voice shaking. His hands shook, too, as he laid her back, reaching for her wound with the tingle of healing magic. It was rushed, sloppy by Anders’ standards, fueled by desperation.

"Careful," Catrin said, "you’ll leave me a scar."

Anders trembled.

"I’ve never been afraid of you before," Merrill observed.

"First time for everything, Daisy."

Anders, for reasons Catrin couldn’t fathom, turned away, abashed.

"Perhaps Isabela is right," Catrin ventured, struggling to prop herself up, brushing at Anders’ hands. Her flesh was knitted well enough. "Perhaps we have taken our fill of violence."

"We should find them," Merrill said. "Or…did you mean—?"

Catrin wasn’t sure what she had meant. She opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure. As the words tried to form, the sky opened up, and poured darkness down.


End file.
